


From The End, Until The Beginning

by EtuBrutus



Series: Magic, or what you will. [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtuBrutus/pseuds/EtuBrutus
Summary: A goddesses' whisper could fell an army, though this time, it was her words that struck him the hardest.“I can make you immortal.”(Based on the Greek Myth: 'Immortality.')





	From The End, Until The Beginning

There’s a young boy, standing in his father’s pavillion. The grass under his feet is crisp and fresh, and the air is fragrant with the freshly-cut lawn, but there’s a prickling sensation that tells him he isn’t alone.

In the flourishing gardens, the only company he has is dead. Or, close enough.

It would be an understatement to call the man ‘old’ - he’s _ancient._ Almost as tall as the boy’s father, if he wasn’t stooping down. Grey, flaking skin stretches over his sallow bones, and his eyes are disconcerting - a familiar colour that he can’t quite place.

The man is standing right in front of him, though he hadn’t been there moments ago. He doesn’t seem to be looking down at him, which is a relief.

“I was a King, once.” The voice is like clashing rocks - familiar, but gravelly and used up.

There’s a silence, until the old man turns his neck to squint at him. The bones creak loud enough for him to _hear_ , and his words are jarring:

“You look just like me.”

The boy begins to shake, because he’s terrified all of a sudden. This doesn’t make sense - it’s just a delusional old man. “I...I don’t.”

The man squints further, but something begins to happen. His eyes aren’t _there_ anymore. They’re just empty, gaping sockets. The man takes a step forward, and his bones grate against each other, creaking like symphony of doors, and he _falls_ and, oh, gods, he’s more corpse than man.

And he’s _laughing._ It’s a wet, twisted thing, that laugh. “You...You _are_ me! I’m what you’ll become, oh, _I’m what you’ll become._ ”

The boy’s more scared than he’s ever been - he wants to leave. To _go away._ “I won’t become you,” he whispers.

The old man’s laughs soon turn to coughs, jerking his body around on the ground. “Oh, but you see, you will.” There’s dark red on the grass, now, and the boy thinks it’s blood.

It’s definitely blood. The cough-laughs are wetter than before, and the man keeps rambling on to himself, with meaningless phrases interspersed when he’s got time to breathe. _“Love will ruin you.”_ and, _“Don’t accept it.”_

The boy is shaking in terror. He has to _go away._ He runs out of the pavillion, to find his father, _anyone,_ because he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

The King and his men don’t find the old corpse - there’s nothing left that suggests his existence. The boy remembers, though. He’ll never be able to forget any of it.

And despite his mother’s hand around him, he can’t stop shaking.

 

**It has been seven years, and the boy serves as a general in his father’s army.**

 

The prince felt the reins shift underhand, slippery with sweat, and tightened his grip on them. His father had given him the position of _general,_ he should be happy. Proud, even. But all he can think is: _unprepared, inexperienced, hysterical._

 _Hysterical,_ his father called him. _It was nothing, just his imagination,_ were his words in court.

That incident when he was ten was written off as nothing, and the prince tried to bring himself to believe it, but he couldn’t. The corpse was painted onto his mind, his words scratched in too deep to ever be erased.

His father - Laomedon, King of Thessaly - had allowed him comfort from his mother, but the disappointment was evident in his eyes whenever he looked upon his son. _Simple and hysterical,_ the servants would whisper, when they thought nobody was listening. _Rambling about corpses and demons,_ his father would agree, on occasion.

He’d gifted the prince the position of ‘general’ - the responsibility of a hundred men thrust on his gangly, teenage shoulders. He wasn’t stupid enough to think of it as an honour - a seventeen-year-old boy serving in such a high position was unheard of.

No, this was a way for everyone to put the ‘incident’ behind them. For the prince to be talked about for his deeds rather than his delusions.

The horses pulled against him, and the reins almost slipped out of his hands. Almost. He clung to them, straining his fingertips, despite the sand billowing up from the chariot’s wheels.

The prince truly wanted to believe his father, to _pretend_ the incident never happened _,_ to put it all behind him, but the not-there eyes kept trailing him from the corners of his vision.

Becoming a general might sway the court in his favour, but it wouldn’t do a thing for his own mind.

This, though? The euphoria of having beasts relinquish their control and fall into his command, of the dust and sand rendering him blind as the beach parted ways underneath his hooves - it almost let him forget about everything else.

Almost.

 

**It has been twelve years, and the boy attends his father’s court. Suitors are lining up.**

 

From all over Greece, suitors attend his Thessaly’s court. Suitors for _him._

Had Tithonus been a teenager, he would have laughed at the prospect, believing it to be a joke, and gone to ride his horses on the beach. His mother would convince Laemodon to _let him be,_ and his father would worry only for the rumors his absence might spread. _Away from the pavillion,_ he might say, but nothing more.

Now, as an accomplished general in Thessaly’s army, he’d attend court and decline every one of them. He didn’t find any of his possible spouses attractive, and the gossiping courtiers had marred any good opinion he might have had prior to their visits.

Tithonus had grown into his tall, gangly frame and had, apparently, become a great source of interest among the nobles his age. He’d heard them swoon over his ‘driftwood eyes,’ and ‘sea-smoothed skin,’ but thankfully, nobody spoke of his _hysterical nature_ anymore.

There had been five suitors today - and they’d all been sent away. Tithonus knew, logically, that none had been unattractive - men and women alike had graceful bodies, captivating features and supple skin, _everything_ that could be lusted for.

Maybe it was their flippancy or false charm, or perhaps the words, ‘ _Love will ruin you,’_ coming from the corpse's mouth every night, but Tithonus just _wasn’t_ romantically interested.

He wondered, sometimes, why they came to ‘woo’ him at all. His Laemodon’s ploy to cover up the ‘incident’ seemed to have worked better than expected, since even some soldiers leered at him when hearing his rank.

 _At least they’re looking at you for the right reasons,_ Tithonus thought to himself. _Better lusted for than ridiculed._

Tithonus had asked his father about it, many years ago, when he’d still been a teenager. He’d gone as a last resort - the Queen had passed away in her deathbed, and the courtiers couldn’t keep their mouths shut. The King had been weary, with a little too much wine in him.

“I don’t understand how it works.” Tithonus said.

“How _what_ works?”

“Love. Romance.” His face had flushed. “That sort of thing.”

“You assume,” Laemodon had said quietly, “That I know anything of it at all.”

 

**It has been seven years, and the boy is by his father’s deathbed.**

 

If there was one thing Tithonus could take pleasure in, it was that his father was dying young - well, young for a King, at least. Too much drinking after the death of his wife, and Thessaly’s politics had driven him to his end. A short, cremated, end.

Tithonus had no misplaced bloodlust, nor did he seek the throne. He wasn’t happy his father had left him - he was relieved that his father _hadn’t_ become a dead-eyed corpse, coughing up blood or spouting prophecies.

At such a young age, he’d somehow drawn the connection between his father and the...the  old man’s corpse. Something that controlled him, and had a say in his life - it was a ridiculous notion, Tithonus knew, but he’d been scared of watching his father grow into a being of nightmares.

At least like this, in his forties, Laemodon would slip into the underworld as he slept, just like his wife had. They’d probably meet each other in Elysium - Tithonus hoped they would, for he _had_ loved his parents, and wished them no ill.

They’d meet in Elysium, and his father would say, _Tithonus ought to be as good a ruler as he is a general,_

and his mother would say, _let him be, Laemodon,_ and despite what his father had claimed, he’d loved his wife, just as much as she’d loved him.

But there was something that stirred inside him, as he sat by the King’s deathbed. A feeling - a horrible, ugly, slippery feeling that he’d never be able to grasp, that gave him joy as he watched his father sleep.

Tithonus hadn’t been a very good son, truth be told. He’d remained celibate, uncoupled and couldn’t care less about the nobles in court.

He’d make an excellent King, though.

 

**It has been a year, and the boy does not understand love.**

 

Tithonus’s suitors had _poured_ into Thessaly’s court once he’d become king. While it _had_ furthered his rapport amongst the nobles, he just...could not accept them. He still didn’t find them attractive, and he knew they barely saw him during their visits. His eyes, skin, wealth - that was what any of them cared for, and none ever thought to look past it.

Or perhaps they did. Tithonus didn’t understand the mechanics of love, in any case. Give him a chariot, or even a kingdom, and he’d be able to run it a smoothly as a wheel, but lovers were a confusing, foreign concept.

The reins were held loosely in his grip as he cantered the length of the beach. The air was bitter with sea-salt, and the hot air clung to him more than it ever had before.

Perhaps the stress of ruling a kingdom had finally gotten to him. He’d used every strategy, every lesson he’d learnt from his father (and acquired on the battlefield) to make his reign as smooth and prosperous as it could be. It had worked to an extent - the economy was stable, and Thessaly was a force to be reckoned with across Greece - they’d formed a triumvirate with Mycenae and Cyrene.

His father’s court - _his_ court, now - urged him to win the hearts of the people, something the nobles claimed only a _consort_ could achieve. It was their _subtle_ way of persuading him to marry, but the very thought made the salty air bitterer. “ _Love will ruin you,”_ his mind echoed.

Tithonus held the reins tighter and pushed the thought aside.  The gentle, roaring waves were making his mare skittish, and so he urged her into a full-fledged gallop. He was at his most comfortable on horseback, and so it wasn’t as difficult to forget as it usually was.

Tithonus knew he was practically spoilt for choice - there were more suitors for him than there were horses in Cyrene’s stables - and the court knew it. _He_ knew it, but there were too many things holding him back from allowing someone to win his heart.

Neither he nor his father had understood love. He wondered if he ever would.

As the thoughts swirled around in his mind, Tithonus felt a sudden rush of vertigo, and almost fell backward as his horse reared up without permission.

That shouldn’t have happened - he’d trained this mare since foalhood. Despite being further away from the waves, the horse was terrified, and Tithonus reacted to the fear with violence, as he’d learnt in the army. Even when dulled, his instincts caused his muscles to clench, and he reached for a dagger - one of the many he kept with him.

He pulled at the reins, and the mare was back on all fours, with the sand billowing up from the ground. Tithonus leapt off the saddle without a sound, and crouched in anticipation.

The mare had been a trained war steed - raised to pick up on and react to the smallest of dangers. If she was scared, there was a culprit.

An assailant. He’d let his guard down, and an _assassin_ had taken advantage of it. He silently cursed himself, because _Laemodon would never have let this happen._

However, as the sand settled, and the air cleared, Tithonus saw nobody around him. His mare was still tense, still _terrified,_ but they were alone on the beach.

Then, he felt something. A slight shift in the air’s pressure, the humming of white noise, and sea-salt flavouring the air. The waves seemed to change as well, crashing in harmony with the sand and the air.

Tithonus realized, with nostalgia, that he wasn’t alone at all.

 

“You really _are_ as attractive as Hermes says.”

It was a woman’s voice, and it wasn’t beautiful. No, it was the intensity of the waves and the bitter salt on his lips - Tithonus could have listened to it forever.

It hadn’t seemed to come _from_ a person, and yet it had. Where there had been nothing but air a moment ago, a woman now stood.

There was no way the woman could have been human. Her skin, eyes, and body claimed otherwise, but he’d heard her voice. It had been thundering and captivating, and her eyes - _oh,_ her eyes. They’d been the dullest of browns, and yet they held nothing but power, confidence, and elegance.

The waves crashed and the sand shifted in rhythm with her blinks. She was energy personified - there was no possibility of her being human.

The woman tilted her head, and his perception shifted until she was a few inches taller than him. What had she said before? As _Hermes says. Hermes._ The name was one of…

Of a god.

A _god._

Something must have shown on his face at the realization, since the woman’s face changed as well. Nothing much, just a smirk, and a shift in her eyes.

“I am Eos. Let’s walk,” she paused, “King of Thessaly.”

Eos.

Tithonus wanted to win her heart.

 

**It has been two years, and the boy is in love. Undeniably.**

 

Tithonus didn’t know if he’d won Eos’s heart. He didn’t think it truly mattered - she’d certainly stolen his, when they’d met that first time on the beach.

Suitors had been dwindling over the last few years, but he wasn’t really complaining. His court was in an uproar, of course, but Tithonus didn’t think he had anything to miss. Their leering eyes and eager bodies had never been something to look forward to.

On the beach, Eos had been a brown-haired, dull-eyed girl.  Later, she’d had dark velvet skin and green eyes. Soon after, she’d donned a fiery mane and maroon lips.

Her voice never changed, though. The tilt of her head, the smirk she reserved for _him_ never changed.

Tithonus didn’t have to understand the concept to know he was in love. It scared him sometimes - words still echoed in the crevices of his mind, “ _Love will ruin you,”_ still drove him to the beach on his mare.

But when he was with Eos, that fear was driven out of his mind. The roaring waves of her voice washed them away, and her shifting eyes would pick it out every time.

Tonight, they were sitting on the long stretch of sand near the sea. The waves would occasionally reach further to caress him, when the conversation was smooth. It was probably Eos’s work - the coast bent itself to her every whim, and he wouldn’t have put it past her to have done so.

It wasn’t as if he minded, after all.

She’d chosen to have driftwood-eyes and sea-smoothed skin this time - ‘ _here, now we match,’_ Eos’d said, with a slight laugh.

For the first time, Tithonus felt at peace. Here, on the sea-tracked, white sand, the corpse’s words couldn’t find him. Here, the old man’s not-there-eyes didn’t watch him.

She’d broken the silence. “How is your kingdom?”

Tithonus frowned. Truth be told, Thessaly had seen far better days - poverty was spiking, and there had been a fall in trade. “It has been better.”

“I blame the monarch,” Eos teased quietly, her gaze on the horizon, “for having other priorities.”

He blushed, for it was true. The goddess had taken up his attention, and resided at the forefront of his thoughts. He found he didn’t mind - his father’s legacy could wait a while.

“I can’t refute that,” he said. “However, I blame the waves.”

“For?”

“For swallowing the monarch up in her caress.”

Eos turned her gaze on him. There wasn’t much sweetness in her eyes, for she was not a sweet deity. She wrecked boats, leaving sailors adrift; set the sea aflame every dawn; showed no mercy to her opposition. She was worshipped and feared as the goddess of the shore.

Tithonus was different.

He wasn’t an opposer, nor a worshipper. For him, Eos’s eyes held the slightest affection, the smallest drop of love, and Tithonus found that he didn’t mind if he’d won her heart if she looked at him differently than she did the others.

_She is a goddess, countless have looked into her eyes and seen what you have._

_Quiet,_ he told his mind.

When Eos spoke, it was almost a whisper. That wasn’t saying much - the whispers of gods could still fell armies. But she was quiet, as if to make sure nobody heard her words. She’d brushed their sea-smoothed hands together,

“I can’t refute that, either.”

The prince didn’t really mind if he hadn’t won Eos’s heart. _But,_ he thought, looking out into the dawning sky and lapping waves, _I have._

 

**It has been five years, and the boy is growing older.**

 

Thoughts of the dead-eyed corpse still came to him. Sometimes, it would be during court, when discussing matters of state. Snatches of moments, when he felt an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck or heard someone laugh too wetly.

Most of the time, it was at night, when Eos wasn’t with him. The old man’s words kept echoing in his mind, amplified in the night’s peace.

_You look just like me._

_I’m what you’ll become._

_I was a king, once._

Sometimes, the words were muffled and unclear, as though murmured. Others, they were as bloody, clear and wet as the day he’d heard them. They’d sounded spontaneous and practiced when he’d heard them, all those years ago. As though the man recited the lyrics of a song he hadn’t known when to sing.

On those nights, Tithonus didn’t - couldn't - sleep. It wasn’t fear - after all, serving as a general in Laemodon’s army had been a bloody ordeal - but his mind just _wouldn’t_ stop recalling the incident.

It’d been happening since he’d been a teenager, though back then, he’d been able to ride mares or pore over battle strategies to divert his mind. Now, with greying hairs and a kingdom to manage, the memories were worse.

Eos was the only thing that helped him forget. She was so full of the essence of the ocean, of divinity, of _raw power_ that the old man’s corpse seemed to evaporate around her.

When she was with him, the merciless words, _‘Love will ruin you,_ ’ evaporated as well.

 

This time, Eos had chosen to meet in the rolling fields of Mycenae. Away from the sea-shore, Eos radiated less power, though it simmered just underneath her new skin - pale lips and blue eyes. She was carving a path through the swaying crops - the creatures shied away from her, as they always did. The pollen-filled air held a hint of sea-salt, and there was an air of tranquility about the two of them, as there always was.

This time, Tithonus broke the silence. “Eos, you know I am mortal.”

She quirked an eyebrow, and her gaze didn’t waver from the path. “Yes, Tithonus, I am aware.”

He was blunt. “You know I will die, far before you will.”

Eos’s gait didn’t waver, and neither did her gaze, though Tithonus had known the goddess long enough to pick up on her tells. Her shoulders tensed imperceptibly, and the salty air had become bitterer.

Tithonus knew the conversation had been unwelcome, but he’d _had_ to bring it up. Compared to Eos’s eternal lifespan, he’d leave for the underworld in the blink of an eye.

Neither one of them said anything for a while, and since he hadn’t been expecting a reply, it came as a surprise when she stopped to turn to face him. “Not necessarily.”

Tithonus stumbled. _What?_

He didn’t dare reply - the gods were always listening, and only foolish mortals spoke of divinity openly.

Eos stepped closer to him, and the sun glinted off her blue eyes. They’d never been this colour before. “I can… I can ensure that you stay with me forever.

Tithonus couldn't breathe - he didn’t know if it was her words, or the fact that they were only a breath apart. He was near paralyzed, and barely managed to get the words out.

“What are you implying, love?”

A goddesses' whisper could fell an army, though this time, this time it was Eos’s _words_ that struck him the hardest.

“I can make you immortal.”

 

**It has been the blink of an eye for a goddess, and the boy has not been keeping track of time.**

 

Tithonus didn’t know how he’d gotten on Olympus. The gods had their secrets, even Eos.

At first, he’d thought the reason he couldn’t breathe was that he was mortal, but it became clear, from the pressure of the air around him, that there was plenty of oxygen to breathe in.

More than plenty. There was so much, he was suffocating.

Eos had taken them to Zeus’s court in the realm of the divine. It was a place filled with the discordant harmonies of twelve gods, their auras and natures clashing against each other like cymbals.

The Olympians hadn’t been visible, at first. Tithonus had struggled with his breath until Eos touched his shoulder, sharing her power. He’d looked around the room - it seemed to have no ceiling - and saw nobody.

Then, he’d looked up. The deities were looming above him, and no matter how much he craned his neck, their faces remained obscured. That pillar he’d noticed earlier was _actually_ Hermes’s leg. His perception shifted to accommodate their sheer _dauntingness,_ and he felt a shift in the way his mind registered reality.

Eos had told him beforehand not to speak unless spoken to. So he kept his mouth shut, as did she, as did the Olympians. He stood, fixed his gaze on the ground, and waited for someone to break the silence.

Thunder sounded as they waited. It kept rumbling. Tithonus almost collapsed when he realized it was Zeus’s voice.

“What brings about this, Eos? Why do you taint the grounds of Olympus with mortality?”

Eos was wearing a different skin, and stood at Tithonus’s height. She looked minuscule compared to the other immortals, but she held herself with as much authority as ever.

“I have come to make a request of you, Lord Zeus.”

“Would this be a formal request, or the returning of a favour provided?”

Tithonus knew the basics of Eos’s plan. Zeus had owed the goddess a favour after she’d delayed the sunrise to hide his affairs from his wife, Hera. Hera had found out eventually, of course, but a favour was a favour, and Zeus was in debt.

However, nobody had ever asked a favour like this one. Not in a millennia.

“This request would be a favour returned, Lord Zeus.”

“Then ask it.”

Tithonus was dumbstruck when Eos held herself without a hint of fear - he was trembling, and they hadn’t even asked yet.

“Give this human immortality. Allow him,” the gods had begun to murmur above them, almost drowning the rest of her words. Their weight managed to carry them to the surface. “...to drink ambrosia and ascend.”

There was nothing but hushed whispers for a few moments. Then, the gods began to shrink. His mind spiked with pain as his perception accounted for the change in dimensions, and finally, _finally,_ they were at eye level. They’d probably come closer to further their gossip, though Zeus hadn’t rejected the request outright.

In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all.

Tithonus had wanted to hold Eos’s hand, to stand with her against the scrutinizing eyes of the Olympians, but he held himself back, knowing that it would not suit the situation. Besides, Eos wasn’t an affectionate goddess. A doting lover, perhaps, though a brutal and time-hardened deity.

The gods around him seemed to be either furious, curious or somewhere in between. Eos had described them briefly, and royal lessons taught by Thessaly’s priests had given him a good idea of who was who.

Hermes, who Eos had mentioned before, was looking at Tithonus with recognition and a slippery smirk. Eos’s words, _‘You are as attractive as Hermes says,’_ came back to him. Tithonus flushed, and turned away.

Athena and Ares wore matching looks of irritation, with him as their target. He tried not to think about them for too long - it wouldn’t do his sanity any good to dwell on the opinions of Wit and War.

Aphrodite had a strange look on her face, but it was almost impossible to ignore Hera’s face. It was the most finely structured, symmetrical face he’d seen, with divine eyes and windswept hair. She would have been beautiful, if not for the briefest fury he’d caught on her face. It melted away into a blank mask, so swiftly that he may have imagined it to begin with.

But there had been something about Hera’s expression that was different from the rest. It hadn’t been directed at Tithonus - he doubted she’d even noticed him.

No. Her fury had been for Eos.

 

After a few minutes of the gods' whispers and glances, Hera held up her hand, signaling for silence. She carried more sway with Zeus than most of the gods did together, and nobody dared speak when the Queen had forbidden them.

She placed a hand on Zeus’s arm, while her blank gaze was tracked on Eos. Tithonus was expecting a cold denial, or perhaps even punishment for asking. Hera, according to Eos, still held animosity towards her for helping Zeus conceal his affair. She could never go against her husband directly, but the Queen had plenty of rage and revenge to share.

When she spoke, it was in a soft, understanding voice.

“ _I_ am in full support of granting Eos’s favour. Husband, _My Lord,_ ” she was simpering, “you and I both know of what it is like to be in _love._ I truly congratulate you on finding the same comfort in this... _mortal,_ Eos.”

Tithonus had grown up in Laemodon’s court, and he knew when a ploy was being made. Hera had _nothing_ to gain from allowing this, and she’d layered false sympathy on her words to hide something.

She continued, “I condone this request with the entirety of my power. Please, Husband, allow her lover to drink the ambrosia. Allow him to,” she paused, her blank face shifting slightly, “ _become immortal._ ”

Tithonus couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. The way Hera had said ‘immortal,’ had implied something else to it, something implication that only she understood. His thoughts were interrupted by a crash of thunder. Zeus.

He’d cleared his throat, and announced, “We shall discuss this request further in detail - Eos, you may take a temporary leave.”

Tithonus suspected that the decision had already been made - no man, not even Zeus would dare oppose his wife - not when she’d so clearly stated her opinion. _Politics are fragile, especially when they have lasted forever,_ he thought.

Eos gripped his arm, and the last thing Tithonus saw before being whisked away was Aphrodite’s knowing, pitying look.

 

**It has been some time, and the King has changed.**

 

Eos is holding his hand in hers as Tithonus wakes up, bleary-eyed. It’s the first thing notices. He looks around, and sees crops and no sign of animals. They’re in the fields of Mycenae, in the first place they’d discussed his mortality (and immortality.)

Eos is wearing driftwood-eyes and sea-smoothed skin - they’re supposed to be matching, but Tithonus is sure her features are more beautiful than his ever were.

He notices something different. He can’t quite place a finger on it, but it’s there. Tithonus’s mind is no longer overwhelmed by Eos’s presence, and the pressure of the air when she’s around has been lessened.

He wonders if her voice feels the same - the intensity of the sound, the sea-salt on his lips, were they different now?

Eos doesn’t feel quite like a daunting goddess anymore. She feels more like an equal, a lover. Tithonus doesn’t know what that means. His head is pounding, and even the swaying fields of Mycenae can’t put it at ease.

“Tithonus,” Eos says, “Tithonus, do you remember?”

He grabs a fistful of wheat from the ground, to steady himself. “Remember what?”

“The ambrosia, the Olympians.” her hand tightens on his. “Zeus agreed to make you immortal. Tell me you remember.”

Fragments of Olympus come back to him. Hera’s fury, Zeus’s thundering voice. The ‘ambrosia’ is a hole in his mind - he can’t recall anything about it.

Tithonus can barely process the fact that he’s not mortal anymore. He’d never grow up to be a walking corpse - would never become the being of his nightmares.

 _Immortal._ That was what he was.

“I remember.”

She holds her face neutrally, and only after having studied her features for hours does Tithonus read the excitement in her eyes. Despite her different forms and skins, Tithonus sees Eos for what she is, and so to him, her face is always the same.

‘ _Love will ruin you-_ ’

 _Quiet_ , he tells his thoughts. He can almost hear Eos saying the same thing. When he’s with her, his memories of the old man, of the incident when he was ten, evaporate.

Now that he’s immortal, he’ll always be with her. He’ll never have to lie awake thinking about the corpse, because he’ll always be lying with her.

Eos leans closer to him. “It worked,” she whispers.

Tithonus copies her, leaning forward as well. “Yes, it worked.”

They rest their foreheads against each other, and nothing is more beautiful to Tithonus than this moment in the fields of Mycenae.

It’s like the moment with the corpse again - painted onto his mind, and branded into his thoughts.

 

**It has been some time, and the King is afraid.**

 

Tithonus doesn’t remember having these many grey hairs. His face isn’t as young as it had been a year ago, though the wrinkles could just as easily be worry lines. His court certainly demanded it of him.

He’s overreacting, he’d had grey hairs before Olympus as well. He was _immortal._

He’s in court right now, and he wishes for Eos’s presence. She isn’t always with him - she’s a goddess, how would she be? But with her next to him, all of his worries were washed away. His nightmares evaporated, and his mind didn’t haunt him.

She would always make time for him, though. Every night, they would lie side by side, and listen to the lapping of the waves. They could talk freely, or nurture silence.

They had all the nights in the world.

 

**It has been some time, and the King remembers.**

 

The reins beneath Tithonus’s hands are slippery. He isn’t the hardened general he’d once been as a prince. Horses didn’t yield to his command quite as easily, and his bones were definitely older.

_How much older? Older than immortality?_

He rides horses when he wants to forget, and right now, he wants to forget about his growing white hairs. They are not welcome in his mind.

Eos probably doesn’t notice - to her, a human's life is barely the blink of an eye.

Tithonus ignores it, for a while. Perhaps this is how the process of immortality goes, perhaps nothing is wrong. He pretends that his voice isn’t changing, isn’t becoming gravelly and weary.

His eyes aren’t as sharp as they once were. He has to squint to see things from a distance.

_This is what aging feels like. I’m aging._

_Quiet,_ he tells the voice in his mind, and continues riding. His hands tighten around the reins, despite the sweat and aching joints. Tithonus wills the stallion to race through the sand.

He never thinks much of the beach, despite the memories it carries. As a prince, he would ride horses here when working off his nerves. He’d stroll here at night, sometimes, to chase away thoughts of the old man’s corpse.

It had all been for his father - learning to ride horses in the first place. Becoming a general, taking over the court, it had all been to please Laemodon.

Tithonus hasn’t thought about his father for a long, long time. The memories aren’t outstanding - he remembers his father’s dismissal of his ‘incident’ as a child, the care he took to make sure Tithonus didn’t disrupt his image. Their conversation about ‘love’ after his mother had died is probably the only one he ever thinks of.

Tithonus finds that he doesn’t care much for remembering his father.

He can feel the stallion slowing down underneath him - it isn’t the mare that had been spooked by Eos on the beach, all those years ago.

He’d met Eos on this beach too, though he wasn’t half as attractive as he’d been back then - _stop thinking about that,_ he tells his mind.

The kingdom is about to fall into disrepair, mutinies are breaking out, yet Tithonus wants only to rest on the beach with Eos by his side. She’s been visiting more and more infrequently lately.

A figure approaches him, though the stallion does not notice. Tithonus knows his mare would - the trained war steed had never let him down.

He has to squint slightly to see who it is.

There is no pressure in the air, nor any overwhelming presence announcing Eos’s arrival. Tithonus can taste the salty air, though it is more bitter than he remembers.

“Tithonus, we must talk.”

 

**It has been the blink of an eye for a mortal, and the King is listening**

 

The goddess looks angry, furious, though it isn’t directed at Tithonus. Even in his immortal state, he can remember her tells, the shifting sand and air, that betray her emotions.

“They tricked me. I _should have seen it coming._ Hera, those _bastards_ of Olympians, they’d deceived us.”

She’s never been like this before. “What do you mean, love?”

Eos turns to meet his eyes. They’re standing a few feet apart, and his stallion has trotted to the shoreline.

“When I’d asked the gods for my favour, the terms had been simple - to allow you to ascend, and become _immortal._ ”

“Yes, so I’d live forever, with _you._ ”

“You are immortal,” she says tonelessly, “but you will continue to age.”

 _What?_ He stumbles back. “How...how is that possible? I’m _immortal,_ aren’t I?”

“Yes. However, Zeus did not grant you eternal youth.”

A loophole. Things begin to click into place - the poorer eyesight, the aching bones. Tithonus has been aging all this while, though he’d been stupid enough to believe he was equal to the gods. To Eos.

He’s expecting her to comfort him, to caress him, to do _something._ But she stands still, and the waves are quiet and discordant.

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “So what? Will I be unlovable to you as an old man?”

Eos’s expression is one of surprise. It’s the first time he’s seen it on any of her faces.

He realizes how horrible the words sound in the air, and tries to take them back. “I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean-”

“Unlovable? Tithonus, I have never once said that I _loved_ you.”

Her words physically jolt him. They’re lies - they _have_ to be. But they don’t stop.

“I have never said it where the gods could hear.  As far as anyone is concerned, our relationship was simply a misunderstanding that lasted for far too long.”

A _misunderstanding._

Tithonus can barely choke the words out. “Eos, love, don’t do this.”

“You’ve become an abomination of nature. To the Olympians, even my relationship with a mortal was disgusting.” She clenches her fist, in irritation. “If I remain with you now, they will have no qualms in killing you.”

_Lies. This can be salvaged - it has to be._

All the times they’d been together surface from his memories. On this beach, all those years ago. In the fields of Mycenae. Lying awake at night, side by side. So many of his memories have her in them.

_What about her? In the eternity of her life, how much of it concerns you?_

His life was the blink of an eye to an immortal.

But, it didn’t have to be. He could find a way around this, he was immortal. Not eternally young, no, but still.

Tithonus reached for her hand, though hers didn’t move.

“Eos, we don’t have to live by the Olympians’ rules. We spent all those years evading them. We can continue like this.” He steps closer. “Please.”

Eos smiles, though it isn’t the smirk she wears with him. This time, it's a sad, pitying thing.

“Tithonus, we can fight the celestials as much as want, though, in the end, we will always submit to powers greater than our own.”

Tithonus steps even closer. At this distance, he can study her features again. Her dull brown eyes aren’t recognizable. It’s like he’s never seen her before.

_You are not the first being to love these eyes. You are but the blink of an eye, a nuisance to her now._

_A pet._

Tithonus hates that he and Eos weren’t equal. Not in power, age, or even in their affections. Yes, he hates that she sees him - in some way or another - as a pet, a thing to pass the time.

But he doesn’t - _can’t_ \- hate her.

He used to feel at ease when Eos washed away his fears - when her very presence gave him comfort. Now, it’s unraveling - his regular thoughts are evaporating as well.

_His kingdom was-_

_The gods hadn’t deceived her outright if only she’d-_

_Love will ruin y-_

_He didn’t hate Eos._

That’s the only thought that he can hold onto.

Eos is right in front of him, though Tithonus can barely tell what she’s feeling under her calm expression. Perhaps she’d fed him those hints and tells in their years together. Perhaps she was just like Hera, underneath what he’d thought had been her true self. Perhaps he didn’t know Eos at all.

But he knows what he feels for her, and he hopes it would be enough. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Almost a whisper, but not quite. “I love you, Eos.”

He closes his eyes, because he doesn’t want to see her expression. He doesn’t want to see if it’s changed at all, or remains as calm and pitying as ever.

When he opens his eyes, Eos isn’t here. She’d never been a sweet deity, brutal and hardened by time. The sand is still, and the waves lap lifelessly against the shore.

It’s like Eos was never there at all. Gone in the blink of an eye.

 

**It has been some time, and the King is waiting.**

 

Things are different. It’s a terrible thing, Tithonus thinks. He is stuck in a place where he cannot enjoy his immortality and can neither return to his mortality, and the person he’d done it all for isn’t there anymore.

Eos isn’t there anymore.

If Tithonus is being honest, the reality is that he doesn’t really notice her absence. She was never a constant presence in the first place, and so it still feels like she’s going to turn up eventually.

Until then, he’ll have to keep waiting.

There are no suitors in the throne-room, and the kingdom is on the brink of collapse. He’s still waiting.

 

**Waiting.**

 

Tithonus is squinting into his mirror, but things are still blurry. He’s inside the castle, and everything is startlingly familiar after having lived there for a century. His feet remember every step.

His hair is more white than grey, and he wishes he could change it (like Eos could) so that he wouldn’t have to be reminded that he was aging. He’s tried dying it, but the hair just falls out and makes him look older still.

Tithonus doesn't need a mirror to know that his skin isn’t sea-smoothed anymore. It’s craggy and rough, like a cliff face - he doubts Eos would even recognize him anymore.

He calls for a servant. “Take this mirror away. Take all of them away. Collect every mirror in the castle and _shatter_ each one.”

The servant hesitates for a moment, before scurrying away.

 

**Waiting.**

 

Tithonus remembers things, sometimes. There’s just so much to remember, that he keeps forgetting things as well.

He remembers Eos, definitely. She’s branded herself onto his mind, like a jagged rock on the beach, which won’t ever be smoothed over by the waves of time.

Today, he visits the stables. Or tomorrow - time has become warped, thanks to the gods’ ‘gift.’ He sees the strong, muscled colts, snuffing at the mangers. The stalls are in perfect condition - Tithonus may have neglected his kingdom, but he’s always cared about his horses.

There’s a stall at the end, a place he remembers spending all his spare time in as a teenager. Before Laemodon died.

An old, dying mare lies inside. She’s near blind, and unfit to ride. She’s supposed to be dead. But he can’t forget her - he’s raised her from foalhood to the battle-steed he’d ridden as a general.

Tithonus was riding her when he first met Eos. The mare definitely should be dead by now, it’s been decades since then.

Tithonus looks into her eyes. They’re tired, and old, and faded.

_Just like yours._

Yes, just like his.

The mare leans up to meet his touch, and squints to see him clearly. “Shh, it’s alright.” Tithonus croons, as he slips his dagger out from his robes. He is doing the mare a mercy, something he sometimes wishes for himself.

“Oh, it’ll all be over soon.”

The mare dies quietly, and becomes one of Tithonus’s many, many memories.

 

**Waiting.**

 

He doesn’t sleep much. There were nightmares that he remembered remembering. Of the old pavilion, of corpses and the like.

Once the assassination attempts begin, he stops sleeping altogether. His immortality came with the perk of not being able to die. Injured, yes. But killed? He’d already tried and failed.

Sometimes he wishes it were possible. What did he have to live for?

Eos was gone, and no length of waiting would bring her back. His kingdom was in shambles - he was in shambles. At least all the mirrors are gone, so he doesn’t have to look at himself.

He can feel his flaking skin, regardless.

 

**Waiting.**

 

Tithonus looks down at his hands. He has to squint, since his sight’s been deteriorating for a while now, but he sees it. His skin is a disgusting, murky grey, flaking away slowly. He’s lived more than a century now, and the servants in the castle back away in fear when they see him. He has trouble walking, since, _of course,_ he hasn’t stopped aging, and neither have his bones.

He can practically _hear_ himself creak when he moves. It’s familiar, for some reason. It’s familiar and terrible and inevitable.

His memory is strange - warped and twisted, with everything still intact. He remembers Hera’s fury on Olympus. Eos’s hand brushing against his own. Zeus’s voice, which sounded like thunder and probably was. The old mare he’d raised. Father. Old. Corpse. Sallow-boned. Corpse. Pavillion. Love.

Love.

_Love will ruin you._

Tithonus clenches his hands. He opens them again. Still grey and flaky. Still too difficult to see without squinting.

A thought occurs to him. Rare things nowadays, thoughts. _Nobody in Thessaly remembers how you were before this. Nobody remembers having a mortal king._

_You’ve held your reign longer than Laemodon did._

Maybe that’s why they’d tried to assassinate him. Maybe that was why nobody showed up to court, apart from his servants. (They would whisper ‘dead-eyed’ and ‘abominable’ when they thought they were alone.)

He looks out the window, in an attempt to clear his head. It just so happens that this wall faces the beach and sea. The gentle, lapping waves which have no regard for him, if they ever had in the first place.

How long had it been since that day on Olympus? Tithonus can’t count the years.

 

**Waiting.**

 

Something happens, one day. Someone is inside the pavilion while Tithonus is there as well. Nostalgia hits him when he realizes he isn’t alone.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks, “I can still see, you know. It’s impossible to assassinate me.”

The person waits as Tithonus has a coughing fit. He can feel the skin peeling away with every jerk.

When he looks up, he sees that they’re wearing an inconspicuous hooded cloak, with plain features hidden underneath. The situation feels familiar, but then again, everything feels familiar once you’ve lived through three lifetimes.

The person - _she_ \- speaks. “You are Tithonus, are you not?”

“Yes, the King of Thessaly.”

“King?” She tilts her head. “You don’t seem much like a King.”

Tithonus is reciting an old memory when he says, “I was a King once, I suppose.”

“Oh?” Her eyes are hidden, but amusement leaks into her voice. “What happened?”

Tithonus swims through his memories, and all of a sudden, he _knows_ who this is. He recognizes the pressure in the air, and the salt on his lips/tongue. He lets out a croaking, dry laugh. After all this time, this is someone he’ll never be able to forget.

“I got myself into something I couldn’t handle. Something that _ruined_ me, in a sense,”

Her voice stiffens, ever-so-slightly. “And what would that be?”

“Love.” He laughs again, more bitterly. “Don’t you remember, Eos?”

 

**It has been the blink of an eye for a mortal, not that the King would know.**

 

“I’m not here to discuss old matters, _King_ of Thessaly.” She pulls her hood back, and goes on, “The Oracle has decreed a new prophecy, part of which concerns you.”

“Leave. You aren’t welcome here.”

Eos pauses. “Your people say the same about you, do they not?”

“My people,” Tithonus begins to cough again. He can’t tell if it’s the salt in the air or his own old lungs causing it, but he’ll choke the words out anyway. “My...my people are _none_ _of_ _your_ _concern_.”

Eos’s face isn’t as impassive as it had once been. Her emotions lash out like crags from the sea. Tithonus finds that he can’t remember how she looks like. Looked like? Perhaps she’d donned disguises, different skins whenever she chose. Perhaps.

When he squints at her now, he sees driftwood-eyes and sea-smoothed skin. It seems familiar.

But, then again, everything seems familiar nowadays.

“You,” Eos bites out, in staccato, “do not tell me what I can or cannot do, _mortal._ ”

He’s still choking on her presence, and it’s eerily similar to his moments on Olympus. But the word hangs in the air. _Mortal_.

_/She is not a sweet goddess./_

_/‘-as attractive as Hermes says,’/_

_/‘You are an abomination of nature. To be with you-’/_

_/You are no longer mortal-/_

_/Mortal./_

_Mortal._

The word is another drop of water in his sea of a mind. Another memory swept away. Another word to describe what he’d been before Olympus.

Olympus? He can’t really remember much about it. Hera’s fury, perhaps. Or Aphrodite’s face before he left.  

Tithonus can remember something as he looks at Eos’s face. It’d been branded into his mind decades, _centuries_ ago.

He’d wanted to win her heart. And he had. And he’d been left alone, to live out his life until he died. But he wouldn’t die - he’d just live and live and live.

Who’s fault had that been?

“Oh, of course, no mortal would dare, _my lady._ ” Tithonus wants the words to sting, to hurt the all-powerful deity. “But. Oh, but, Eos.”

_‘But.’ What a funny word._

“But… I’m not exactly _mortal_ , am I? Not anymore”

Eos stiffens further, and Tithonus begins to cough again. But this time, he’s laughing as well. Eventually, he keels over, almost touching the pavilion dead, dry grass. He can hear how grotesque his laugh sounds - gravelly, croaking and sickly.

If he leaves the pavilion now, he won’t have to think about Eos or her god-forsaken prophecy. She wouldn’t follow him - won’t stoop as low as trailing behind him like a lost lover. He’ll be back alone, in his castle, with only the whispering servants for company. He can stroke the colts in the stables - they didn’t seem to mind his appearance.

_Driftwood-eyes and sea-smoothed skin._

_Quiet._ Tithonus shoves the memory aside. He stands up, and his creaking bones carry him to the overgrown hedges near the door. He probably leaves a trail of flaking skin and fallen hair behind him, but by now he’s used to it.

There’s a slight change in the air - the salt disappears, and the air is static. The waves from the beach outside settle into themselves a fraction more.

He’s not choking anymore. Well, his lungs are still worthless, but it isn’t divinity making him cough.

Eos is gone, again. In the blink of an eye. Again.

It feels familiar, but then everything does.

 

**Remembering.**

 

Tithonus spends almost all of his time in the pavilion or stables. Nobody attends court at all, because it isn’t held. The servants do their best to remain invisible (or maybe they’ve just grown older and died - he’s lost track of their lives.)

 

He tries not to think about things. Or think at all. It’s easier to do things on instinct - he doesn’t have to worry about his health, in any case. And besides - to think new thoughts would require him to remember.

 

One day, as he’s squinting up at the sun, reimagining Olympus, he hears a voice. “Tithonus.”

Who could it be? The sound isn’t divine enough to be a god’s, nor does it sound human. It’s a man’s voice, something familiar from very, _very_ long ago. Before Eos, even.

“Tithonus, son.” It’s his father.

 _Laumodon._ No, it can’t be.

“You can’t assassinate me,” he says, weakly.

“ Laomedon, _let him be,”_ his mother chastises.

They were talking about him. “Mother.” he receives no reply. “Fa-father?”

“Come to us, son. We’re waiting for you.” His parents are dead, and Tithonus wants more than anything to join them in the afterlife. He’s been King for far longer than his father ever had, and he _misses_ them. It’s the first time in centuries that he does, but Tithonus wants to be with his parents.

“Join us.”

“I...I _can’t_!” His voice has never been more hoarse, and coughs wrack his body until the skin flakes away like a blizzard.

He’s on his knees now, and he remembers that the grass underfoot used to be alive. It used to be beautiful, but now it’s just like him. Shriveled, near-dead and unable to grow - in a stalemate between life and death.

His parents have stopped talking. Were they ever talking in the first place? He wants to remember what happened - they’d been here just moments ago.

“Don’t leave me alone.” But that’s silly - he’s been alone for centuries now.

The thought flows away in his ocean of a mind, and, for once, Tithonus feels pure, seething hatred.

Go away, he tells his memories. _Go. Away._ They don’t, of course, nothing has ever listened to him. But nothing has lived as long as he has, either.

He’s old - he can barely walk, see or speak. But he can _remember._ So that’s what he does.

He remembers the countless times the pavilion walls have surrounded him. He recalls how he’d run out of here and called his father, back when he was a boy. He thinks of how many people would walk its grounds after court, and how Eos had talked to him just days ago about the oracle’s prophecy. He squeezes every fucking drop of water from his mind, every wave from the god-forsaken ocean he’s built up, and lets it seep into the dead, dry grass of the pavilion.

And something happens.

 

**It has not been any time at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.**

 

The old man can’t remember his name. He can’t remember anything - his mind is empty.

He looks around. There’s grass on the ground - clean, well-cut and fresh. Pillars surround the pavilion. There’s the bustle of life around him - past wooden doors and flourishing gardens, everything’s just so _alive._

He isn’t, though. The skin on his hands is grey and flaking, and he feels creaky and frail. As though his bones were as sallow as shells.

The old man’s mind is empty, but he notices that there are things painted onto it. Scratched in, permanently, so he doesn’t forget. _Useful,_ he thinks. But no, he doesn't think. Because to _think_ would be to _remember_.

The old man realizes, suddenly, that he isn’t alone in the pavilion. There’s a young boy on the grass as well, and he’s looking up at him with… with driftwood eyes and sea-smoothed skin.

 _Familiar,_ his mind echoes.

The old man looks into his mind, at the things inscribed into it.

_He’d been a King, once._

“I was a King, once.” he says, to nobody. To the boy, perhaps.

Looking closer at him, the old man can see the resemblance. To something from long, _long_ ago - looking into mirrors. Watching the face grow older - watching sea smoothed skin turn wrinkly.

_He looked just like him._

“You look just like me.”

The boy is shaking. “I don’t,” he says.

But the old man begins to remember. He recalls having this very same conversation with an old corpse as a boy, and pondering the words for the rest of his life. The memory was first one branded into his mind - something that he remembers even now, as an old man.

He looks back at the memory, and for some reason, begins to laugh. It’s funny, how things are coming full circle, and so he takes that conversation from years and years and years ago and repeats it.

“You _are_ me. I’m what you’ll become, oh,  _I’m what you’ll become._ ”

It’s a jolting realization that his bones can’t carry him, and that his voice is too hoarse to work properly. The old man doesn’t stop laughing, though - he allows himself to fall to the earth and lets himself become blind.

Yes, he’s becoming blind. He tries to squint at the boy, but his eyes aren’t even there anymore.

“Come to us, son.”

“We’re here, waiting for you.”

By some miracle, some _phenomenon,_ the old man begins to die. To well and truly decompose, and sink into the earth of the pavilion - the place where it all began and all ended.

He can remember, back when he was a child, that he’d gone to call the king to the scene. He can recall that there’d been nothing left of the corpse - of _him -_ when Laomedon had come to investigate, and for once, _he’s happy._

The old man is blind. He’s aged, rotted and flaked away; he’s been in and out of love; he’s known pain and he’s known euphoria, but here, finally, _finally,_ he’ll know contentment.

He lies back on the crisp, well-cut grass. It’s his deathbed - one fit for a King. And he knows that, soon, in the blink of an eye, he’ll disappear. That’s how gods and mortals were alike - they flew forward through time at their own pace, never believing there to be another direction.

He smiles, as a child might.

And he dies, in the blink of an eye.


End file.
